The White Order (30 page)

Outside the mages' tower, the cold early spring rain beat on the stones and shutters, and occasional chill gusts sifted past the closed shutters. Inside, the heaped coals imparted a welcome warmth to Myral's room.

   Cerryl sat on the hard chair.

   “You look troubled.” Myral lifted his steaming cider. “Have some.”

   “Thank you.” The younger man poured a half a mug from the pitcher, half-scanning it for chaos, then took a sip of the warming liquid, hoping it might lessen his headache.

   “What is the difficulty?”

   “Sometimes, I seem to be able to clean large sections of the bricks easily, as if... as if I had been doing it for years. But at other times, or at almost any time I try to focus the chaos-fire on anything, it sort of just. . . dribbles out. Or it's like a ray of light that warms the bricks but doesn't scour. Sometimes, I can get it to blacken the slime-”

   “The fire like a light ray?” asked Myral.

   Cerryl nodded.

   “That's what you should work on ... if you can.”

   “If I can? Can't all mages-”

   “No.” The older mage shook his head. “The ancients of Cyador all could, if one can believe the old writings, but few can today. Very few. It would be good if you could.”

   “I don't know. There's a lot of order use it takes ... I think.” Cerryl Pondered at Myral's diffidence, at a subtle wrongness, and yet Myral was clearly concerned for Cerryl. Again... what was being withheld?

   “Cerryl,” said Myral mildly, “you can use chaos without being of chaos.”

   That was a clear, direct, and truthful statement, and the younger mage swallowed as Myral continued.

   “The world is filled with order and chaos. Some floats free; some is mixed with the elements of the world. There is chaos in the molten rock of the fire mountains, and chaos feeds the waters of hot springs. Order is bound into iron. Chaos is not bound into you-or me, or Jeslek. We direct the chaos-that is, gathering it from the world around us. I have told you this before. It is written in Colors of White. But you need to understand this. When you marshal chaos fire in the sewers it does not come from within you but from the world. You do not have to make it part of you. Some do.” Myral smiled sadly. “They die young.”

   “But... why?”

   “It is easier at first to let the chaos flow through you and be part of you.” Myral offered an ironic smile. “Most of the time, in whatever trade one engages in, true skill takes greater effort and time to develop. You are struggling between trying to channel chaos outside yourself and letting it flow through you. You get better results now, if it goes through you. Is this not true?”

   “Yes,” Cerryl admitted.

   “The choice is yours.” Myral stood. “I have no special tricks to offer you, no easy steps to control, just observations.” He gestured toward the door. “And you need to keep working at it in the sewers, for so long as it takes until you can handle chaos consistently and with control.”

   Cerryl hurriedly swallowed the last of the cider, wincing as the hot liquid seared his throat, then eased back the straight-backed chair and stood.

   “I am not hiding a secret from you,” Myral added. “I can tell you what is, but you have to find out how to make it work for you.”

   “Yes, ser.”

   “Cerryl.” Myral's voice hardened. “You can honestly try to understand, or you can pretend you do and fail or die young. You choose.” He nodded to the door once more.

   As Cerryl left and started down the stone steps, the sound of the white oak door's closing still echoing in his ears, his throat still burning, he felt like screaming. If he didn't have the ability to muster strong chaos force, he would be at the mercy of the Kesriks of Candar. If he didn't get control of the chaos force outside himself, he'd die young. If he didn't keep some ability to handle chaos, he'd fail and die.

   But... Myral was suggesting that the ways that Cerryl knew would work were wrong, and that the ways he couldn't even see how to master were right, and then Myral had the coldness ... the something ... not even to offer a single practical piece of advice.

   The young would-be mage shook his head as he walked down the steps, thinking of another long day in the sewers, fumbling and scrambling with his uncertain control of chaos-fire... and his all-too-uncertain life in Fairhaven.

Behind Cerryl, back up the runnel toward the steps to the street and the bronze sewer grate, Lilian's lance tapped nervously, then stopped, as if Dientyr had jammed an elbow-or something-into the other lancer.

   Cerryl could sense that the day was getting late. He was sweating, and his tunic probably reeked from sweat and fear and sewage, so much so that he smelled nothing.

   He had tried everything he could think of, but still the only way he could seem to manifest a decent amount of chaos-fire was to let it flow through him-half-instinctively. Yet Myral had been quite clear that such was far from the best way.

   Cerryl wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, looking almost blankly into the darkness. His eyes were tired, and the darkness seemed to flash at him in waves.

   For a moment, he closed his eyes, trying to think. What was he overlooking? He had to be missing something. Maybe there wasn't enough chaos close enough to him to channel. Did one have to gather chaos? How?

   There had to be a way. Myral's words still rang in his ears. “... use chaos without being of chaos ... gathering chaos from the world around us...”

   What drew in chaos? Sunlight?

   Cerryl nodded, imagining himself as a huge flower, drawing in chaos as a blossom drew in sunlight, turning that sunlight into flame, and directing it toward the slime on the bricks ...

   Whhhssstttt... A line of golden white flame-a line of flame flashed from the air before Cerryl down the tunnel... not touching the green-coated bricks until-who knew how far away?

   Cerryl stood motionless, unable to believe what he had seen. Had he really seen it?

   Again, after another deep breath, he tried to replicate the sense of gathering chaos as the flowers gathered sunlight, and to let it flow around him-not through him-but around him and slightly down.

   Whhsttt!

   The golden white flame lance seared a line across the bricks.

   A wide grin spread across Cerryl's face, and he felt like jumping Up and down in joy. Instead ... he tried to replicate the feeling, the actions again.

   Whhhsstt!

   For the third time, the flame lance flared down the tunnel, at a flatter angle that seared away even more of the scum and slime.

   The young mage, unable to keep the grin off his face, kept looking into the darkness as he took another long breath. He was winded, and tired, but he had something, something he wasn't sure he'd seen elsewhere. But would Jeslek or Sterol have showed all they had?

   He shook his head.

   Behind him, Ullan's lance tapped nervously, once, twice.

   “Not now,” hissed Dientyr.

   Cerryl turned, wiping the grin off his face. “Ullan... I know it's uncomfortable down here, and I know you don't like it, but when you keep tapping that lance, it distracts me, and that means whatever I'm doing will take longer.” He paused. “I'd appreciate it if you'd make a bigger effort not to tap it on the bricks.”

   “Yes, ser.” Ullan's voice squeaked on the “ser,” and the thin dark mustache bobbed, and sweat streamed down his forehead.

   “Good.” Cerryl turned back to the tunnel, wanting to see how much more progress he could make while refining his new technique.

   “Lucky ... Ullan... real lucky,” whispered Dientyr.

   Cerryl forced himself to concentrate, to ignore the rising sense of elation that had begun to fill him.

As he stepped through the squared archway into the foyer of the front Hall of the Mages, Cerryl wiped the dampness from his forehead, part sweat from the rapid walk down the avenue until he had parted from Jyantyl and the lancers at the edge of the square and part dampness from the spring drizzle that cloaked Fairhaven, so fine that his head almost didn't ache. His eyes blinked to readjust to the dimness inside the building. After a moment, he started toward the back of the hall and the courtyard. The evening bells had not rung, and that meant he had time to get washed up before eating and not be one of the late arrivals.

   A motion caught Cerryl's eyes, and he stopped just inside the foyer. Eliasar marched quickly from the tower steps through the foyer. The arms mage wore a huge white-bronze broadsword in a shoulder harness, and a shortsword from a belt. A lazy smile flickered across Eliasar's face as his fingers touched the hilt of the shorter blade.

   Cerryl frowned but followed Eliasar toward the courtyard. When Cerryl had reached the fountain, though, the arms mage was out of sight. With a shrug, Cerryl circled the fountain, avoiding the wet stones near the basin, and entered the rear hall, then turned toward the washrooms.

   For once, even after cleaning up, Cerryl got to the meal hall before most of the other students or the handful of mages who ate there. Esaak sat alone in one corner, perusing a book of some sort, and another apprentice-Kochar-sat at one of the larger circular tables. Kochar's eyes went to the table's surface as Cerryl glanced toward the younger redhead.

   “Young Cerryl!” called Esaak.

   “Yes, ser.” Cerryl turned and started toward the older mage.

   “You can eat. You young men are always starving. I was once. Remember, I want the best you can do on those cross-section and flow problems tomorrow.”

   “Yes, ser.”

   “Good.” Esaak waved. “Go eat.”

   Cerryl headed back toward the serving table, getting there just as Bealtur came through the archway. Cerryl filled his platter with lemon creamed mutton chunks over hard bread, grabbed two pearapples to balance the heavy meat and thick sauce, and added the mug of ale. He made his way to one of the empty circular polished white oak tables.

   Bealtur stood back, fingering his dark and wispy goatee, until Cerryl left the serving table.

   Cerryl ate slowly, silently, his mind flitting between the cross-section problems he had not finished working out and his efforts, unsuccessful so far, to split the golden lance light into the colored beams and still have them retain enough power to fire-scour the slimed bricks.

   Bealtur joined Kochar, and the two began to talk, but in voices low enough that the sounds did not carry to Cerryl nor interrupt his thoughts about chaos-fire and light.

   Did trying to order light, so to speak, mean that the power of chaos was weakened in the light? Or was it the way in which he was trying to order it? Cerryl shook his head abruptly. How many times had he argued those points in his head? And how many times had he not found an answer there, or in Colors of White? How many answers had he sought and not found-beginning with the death of his aunt and uncle? Deaths he was more convinced than ever had been caused by chaos-fire.

   “Cerryl?” Faltar stood by the table.

   Cerryl glanced up with a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Sit down. I didn't see you. I was thinking about the problems I have to do before tomorrow for Esaak.”

   Faltar slid onto the stool across from Cerryl, his blond hair drifting across his forehead. “You're always thinking about something.”

   “I suppose so. There was a time when... never mind.” Cerryl laughed self-consciously, then grinned. “Has anything interesting been happening around here?”

   “Broka says I haven't learned the bones of the body well enough. Derka doesn't think my hand is good enough for a mage. He keeps telling me that no one could read what I write. You're lucky you were a scrivener, that way.” Faltar took a bite of pearapple and chewed it, then looked at the yellowed white sauce on his platter. “Mutton... again.”

   “I hadn't thought being a scrivener's apprentice was good for much.” Cerryl took a swallow of ale, a draught that helped cut the greasiness of the lemon sauce. “This is greasier than usual.”

   “You should listen to Derka about writing,” said Faltar sourly. “The mutton is always greasy.”

   Cerryl paused. “I saw Eliasar wearing a lot of weapons, just before I got here. He looked happy.” He gave a low laugh. “He likes weapons. I had to wonder where he was going.”

   “Haven't you seen?” Faltar took a quick sip of the amber ale. “They're readying a whole force of white lancers. They're all going to Certis-Jellico, from what I've heard.”

   “From whom?” asked Cerryl quietly. “No one seems to tell anyone anything. Especially us.”

   A quick blush passed across Faltar's face, a flushing that Cerryl ignored. “I've just listened,” Faltar finally said. “You aren't around here enough to overhear things.”

   “That's probably true. ”I'm down there struggling along in the tunnels.“ Cerryl offered a smile. ”Did you hear why Eliasar and those lancers are going to Jellico? I thought we had an agreement with Certis."

   “I think it has something to do with the problems in Gallos.” The blond student shrugged. “You know about the new prefect there?”

   His mouth full of lamb and lemon-sauced bread, Cerryl nodded.

   “He's claiming that the agreement about the Great White Road was made when his sire was ailing, and that it doesn't bind him to collect the road tariffs for us.”

   “That's almost half the road's length,” mumbled Cerryl.

   “It's worse than that, Derka says. The prefect's claiming that we have no right to tax any of the other roads we built, and that includes the main road from Jellico through Passera to Fenard.” Faltar lowered his voice. “They're going to have a meeting about it-all the full mages.” Faltar lowered his voice. “That was what Lyasa told me.”

   Yet Eliasar was already on his way to Certis. To ensure that the viscount stayed loyal to Fairhaven? Was the White Order's hold on eastern Candar that fragile?

   “That doesn't sound good,” murmured Cerryl. “I wouldn't know, but if there is going to be a meeting ...”

   “That's what... Well... no ... I don't think so, either.” Faltar glanced nervously around the meal hall.

   “Isn't there a mage in Fenard? We saw him here once, I think. Can't he do anything?”

   “I don't know.” Faltar finally looked back at his platter. “About the mage, I mean. There's a mage in all the places where there's a ruler. Except Spidlar and Sligo, and they have a Traders' Council or something.”

   “If they want us to know, they'll tell us.” Cerryl laughed. “Otherwise, what can we do? I've still got sewer duty. You've still got to improve your hand, and I've still got to do cross-section problems for Esaak. Tonight,” Cerryl added as he stood.

   “Tonight?”

   Cerryl nodded and turned toward his cell, hoping he wouldn't be working too long into the night.